


laudable

by fealle



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Family History, Foot Fetish, Gen, Knifeplay, M/M, Porn, Shoe Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fealle/pseuds/fealle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i have been living too long at war. (erwin smith bday fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	laudable

**Author's Note:**

> kink meme fill i did late, which idek where the link is now sob. warnings for: erwin pov, inappropriate blowjobs and foreplay involving a knife and a shoe (not together u pervs), spoilers from ch. 49+ and mebbe the yaoi vn.
> 
> eu also said that there needs to be erwin smith doing amazing things with one hand, so here's a fic for that.

  
  


Three incidents occur in the evening of my birthday:

One. I am no longer confined to a house. Mike brings a letter from home, and he hands it to me with a sympathetic eye. I don't need to open it to know what has happened: the Survey Corps is not a home. It is a slaughterhouse fit for a king. 

The last lines of the letter read, _with all due respect, Erwin, we have foreseen your growth into a man but we have not foreseen such a willingness on your part to dedicate yourself into distressing business, etc., etc.._ Levi tells me, if that letter were your mother, she would've slapped you in the face. What's a boy supposed to do?

The Commander picks up his mother's letter and commits it into the flames. I can't answer for the boy that I was, but perhaps another time, it will come to me in a moment of weakness, burying guilt into my heart with a cold hand. 

Potential worse case scenarios, all of them which probably have come to pass: assume that mother would've appealed to have me removed from the house anyway. Assume that mother had appealed first to father, and then to my uncle. Assume that grandfather has been notified. Assume that the words 'heroic' and 'stubborn' have been thrown around, possibly in the same breath as 'foolish'. Assume that my brother's face upon receiving the news is not one of relief, but of dread knowing that he has to fill in the shadows which I have imprinted onto the house ever since I was born, and no, it will not be easy for him. Nor will they be merciful. The truth of the matter is that I have been living too long at war: in my own house, in my own legion, in my own quarters. Those who have remained with me understand how much of it is embedded in my bones.

 

*

 

Second. I remember a scene. Lower Sina in Autumn, a mess of fog and rain:

"In the old days, there were books upon books about the body as a container to the soul. Most anatomy books spoke about our bodies being proportioned into what was called the divine proportion, a proportion which was believed to be the most aesthetically pleasing."

Levi remains still underneath my touch, listening as I murmur the words onto the dip of his spine. His hand remains pinned at the small of his back, the leather of my boots marking his white shirt, his small wrists. He will hate me, I remember telling myself. I also remember telling myself: that is good. "Of course, artists have historically created different, but highly idealised standards, which varied over different regions and periods .... personally, for me, I approve of it because of its precision when it comes to dividing the body into more manageable, but nevertheless beautiful, disjointed parts."

(I don't remember what he had said, and I cannot recreate his disdain.)

"Take, for example, a canon of proportion based on the 'fist', measured across the knuckles." I have his knife (suddenly I have his knife), and I run the edge of the blade over his small knuckles. A thin line of red appears over his skin. "Measured across the knuckles, eighteen fists from the ground to the hairline on the forehead - " the blade moves on the edge of his arm, over his shoulder, presses on the side of his neck, a quivering cheek, and over the hairline. "- which determines the proportions of the human body."

(I don't remember what he had said.)

Levi jolts me awake. "you were napping."

"I remembered something." I take his hands slowly into my own hand. In another time: both would've covered his hand, but now the back of his hand is bare to me. Naked as a half-drawn blade. "Do you remember when I knocked you down to the ground when I first met you? You had a knife, you were going to slit my throat, but I took that away from you."

"You've taken a lot of things away from me." He had said it, I believe, with nostalgia. Not hate, and for that, I am relieved.

"That's true."

It takes him a while before he responds, "I don't remember, Erwin."

I kiss the scar over his knuckles. "It's alright. It wasn't that important."

 

*

 

( _I thought it was. We had ended up in a room, perhaps his own or someone else's, that night; his knife was still with me. He knocks me down to the bed, and I take out the knife and prepare to strike him open but Levi kisses me. I can taste the rain and the taste of the ground, grit and mud on his tongue. Levi is cold and pale and thin, a dead thing warmed over in my own hands, and I had the idea that if I stabbed him he will leak ice, not blood, so cold and pale he was at that time._

_He takes the knife from my hands, his dark eyes never leaving my own, and strips me with it, the buttons fall uselessly down to the hardwood floor. He traces a line from the edge of my trousers, to my navel, to my stomach, my chest, my clavicles, until they reached the edge of my adam's apple, of my chin, and the blade was pressed over my lips._

_I held him on his hips, a swallow in a too-big cage made of razors. Levi whispers against the blade:_ in the old language, we call this: vultus subridens.

_We kiss with the blade between our mouths. I cut my tongue on the edge, and I pulled away, but Levi held me with his hand on my neck, and kissed me anyway, the knife stuck on the edge of the headboard as he kissed me, licking the blood off the edge of my tongue over and over, not content with a taste, like he was dying. Like he was intent on drowning in my warmth, in my blood, at the tantalizing edge of the knife._

_When he pulled away he whispered, harshly,_ I am going to hurt you, you fucking shithead, if you can't promise to love me and be able to send me to my death with a steady hand. 

_Assume that I already said yes, regardless, and Levi never even had to ask. Assume that at that time I would've torn the world apart in order to have the chance to keep him. Assume that the title of 'lover' was not something I earned, but conferred to me, spoken at that time - I can't recreate his desperation, his anger - like a curse, because it might as well be for men like us. Assume that I have promised him the chance to cut me if I fail. Assume that at all times, Levi had said yes._ )

 

*

 

Third:

Levi in Hange's stilletos. He had taken it from her lab and wiped and polished it clean so that the leather gleams in the light of the fireplace in my room. His toes were daintily pointed towards me and I kiss the arch of his foot as I gently slip the shoe onto his foot.

"It looks lovely on you."

Levi scoffs. "You think everything is lovely because you're an idiot."

He tilts my head with the tip, and presses his foot against my neck until the edge of the stiletto is at the dip between my clavicles, and he grins. "I want your mouth," he murmurs. "On the heel."

Man serves, before he leads. I kiss the tip of his heel and it enters my mouth, slowly, tongue laving from edge to the edge of the shoe near his ankle and then down the heel again, slowly, making a show only for him, my fingers lightly holding his foot. Spit covering my mouth, trailing down my chin, Levi's knuckles white as he holds on to the edge of my desk. My beard bristles against his skin as I lightly suck on his ankle, worrying my teeth against the tip. Down the edges of his foot my tongue traces the curve of the shoe and I suck on his ankle on the other side. Levi's head is tilted back, neck arched and visible against me and his other foot edges over the stump of my arm, tracing imaginary veins with the pointed tip of the heel.

My fingers lightly trace a line from the back of his knee down to his calf. "Sometimes," Levi says, gasping, "I don't think you can get filthier if you tried."

"Darling." 

(In the morning: the shoes are returned, and Hange wisely does not question the impression of a kiss on the cap of the shoe.)

 

 

-end-


End file.
